You stood near the windows, arms folded, while Mattheo lounged on the couch, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, a smirk playing at his lips as he watched you.

“I am not,” you said coolly, “the female version of anyone.”

His grin widened. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice laced with amusement. “Because everyone seems to think you're me in a skirt.”

You scoffed, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “I don’t do what I do because of you.”

“No,” he said, pushing himself up, “you do it exactly like me, just with better eyeliner.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched like you wanted to smile. “Maybe people just can’t handle two powerful, ruthless minds in the same year. It terrifies them. So they compare.”

Mattheo stepped closer, voice dropping slightly. “It’s not just that we’re alike. It’s the way you move through a room like you own it. The way you look someone dead in the eye before destroying them with a single sentence. You’re chaos in a perfectly wrapped package.”

“And you think that means I’m a copy of you?” you said, raising your eyebrow.

“No,” he murmured, his smirk softening. “I think it means I’ve finally met someone who’s not afraid to match me.”

You smirked to him. “Careful, Mattheo. I don’t match. I outdo.”

Mattheo brushed a strand of hair from your face. "I really want to see how you plan to do it."